


A Man of Studious and Quiet Habits

by orphan_account



Series: It's Still a Bromance if Watson's a Woman [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Femlock, Gen, Genderswap, WIP, Work In Progress, girl!Watson, girl!john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-18
Updated: 2012-06-18
Packaged: 2017-11-08 00:43:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/437217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Dammit, Sherlock Holmes, don’t you bloody die on me again,” Joanna Watson shoved the Browning into her shoulder holster with steady hands.  “You don’t get to do this to me twice, you bloody idiot.”</i>
</p><p>  <i>Jo dropped to her knees with a bit more force than necessary, using the flash of pain to sharpen her focus.  She yanked Sherlock’s shirt open in a shower of buttons, revealing a jagged stab wound on his stomach.  The serial killer they’d been after for weeks now sagged against the far wall with a bullet between his bloodshot brown eyes.</i></p><p>  <i>“This hurts more than I remember,” Sherlock sounded surprised.</i></p><p>Jo Watson was never really meant for the quiet life, anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Man of Studious and Quiet Habits

**Author's Note:**

> Title inspired by A Study in Scarlet: _"If I am to lodge with anyone, I should prefer a man of studious and quiet habits. I am not strong enough yet to stand much noise or excitement. I had enough of both in Afghanistan to last me for the remainder of my natural existence."_
> 
> Warnings for not terribly graphic descriptions of injuries and language.

“Dammit, Sherlock Holmes, don’t you bloody die on me again,” Joanna Watson shoved the Browning into her shoulder holster with steady hands.  “You don’t get to do this to me twice, you bastard.”

Jo dropped to her knees with a bit more force than necessary, using the flash of pain to sharpen her focus.  She yanked Sherlock’s shirt open in a shower of buttons, revealing a jagged stab wound on his stomach.  The serial killer they’d been after for weeks now sagged against the far wall with a bullet between his bloodshot brown eyes.

“This hurts more than I remember,” Sherlock sounded surprised.  As Jo leaned over him, she tried to ignore the way his eyes didn’t quite focus on her face.  That was almost as worrisome as his lack of concern for his £300 shirt.

“When was the last time you were stabbed?” she asked, forcing irritation instead of panic into her tone.  Jo yanked the scarf from around her neck and applied pressure to Sherlock’s abdomen.  The scarf was no great loss; it was an apology gift from Harry after the fiasco at Christmas.  Because nothing says ‘I’m sorry for drunkenly accusing you of ruining your life and shagging your mad flatmate and calling you plump’ like a polyester blend scarf.

“Hadn’t met you yet,” Sherlock scowled, and there, his eyes finally fixed on hers.  He looked far too white.  The blood was seeping through the light blue fabric too quickly.  Where the hell was their backup?

“Should’ve known you got into that sort of trouble.  Silly not to always have a soldier on hand.  Or a doctor.  You’ll want one at the very least.  Can’t imagine how you got on without me.  Can you count my fingers, please?” Jo raised her right hand, left still pressing firmly against his stomach.

“Joanna, you should probably know—” Sherlock gasped, viridian eyes wide enough to show whites all around the irises.

“Whatever it is, Sherlock, it’s fine.  I promise, okay?”  The hand she’d raised for him to look out now clutched desperately at the thin fingers of his left hand.  “I’m here, our backup is coming, and this doesn’t look so bad.” 

Jo was a truly horrible liar.  At least with Sherlock.  She used to lie to patients in the field all the time, but this…  Well, this was different.  Obviously. 

“Just, um, just be quiet and relax.  No need to fret, Dr. Watson’s on the case.  It’s all fine.” 

She could feel the dread rising at the back of her throat, in the pit of her stomach.  It took all of her not inconsiderable medical and military training to tamp the wave of fear down.  Sherlock’s use of her full name made her even more panicky than the rush of too-hot blood.  “Right, so, quick question, Sherlock.”  Jo released his hand and held up three fingers.  “How many fingers am I holding up?” It took all her willpower not to wince at the naked desperation in her voice.

“Mycroft always liked you,” Sherlock’s words slurred.  His head lolled to the left as his eyes fluttered shut.

“Nonononono, no!  You have to stay conscious!  _Please_ Sherlock, you great git,” she begged, shaking his shoulder with her right hand.  He struggled to keep his eyes open.  “You’re not allowed to leave again, do you hear me?  I, I refuse to accept it; you forfeited the right to die first after the last time.  Not twice!  I’m older; it’s only fair I go first.  Or together.  Yeah, that’d…yes.”  Jo looked up from her bloody hands and her eyes locked on Sherlock’s in a desperate plea to hold his attention.  “It’d be okay if it was us together, right, Sherlock?  Just not like this, alright?  We need more time, because it took us so fucking long to find each other.  I always wanted a best friend even if I never thought it would be you.  And then you left, you _died_ on me, you wanker.  And we just, we need more time.  More cases.  More life, more Holmes and Watson.  You and me, a couple of nutters running all over London having adventures.  So just try not to die now… _please._ Please, Sherlock _.  Don’t leave me_. ” 

And there, she almost fainted.  Nothing had ever been as wonderful as the sound of their backup thundering up the stairs.  “We’re up here!  Jesus fucking Christ, we’re up the stairs on the left.  We need a bloody medic, right _now_!”  And she knew she was screaming.  She was hysterical, but the sharp relief was flooding her with hormones and it was all she could do to keep firm pressure on Sherlock’s stomach.

And then there were a lot of people in the room and Jo was being bodily hauled away from Sherlock and maybe she was screaming something about how he’s allergic to penicillin and blackberries.  When she came to her senses the room was quieter and Lestrade held her fiercely to his chest, his strong hands tracing a soothing track down her back.

“Where is that water coming from?” Jo blinked a few times, looking up and pushing back in Lestrade’s grip.

“You’re crying.”  Greg had the saddest smile on his face.

“Oh.”  She wiped at her cheek with her hand.  Only then did it occur to her that that wouldn’t help because her hands were covered in blood.  “I got blood on you.”

“It’s okay.”

Blood.  Sherlock’s blood.  Sherlock.  Stabbed and down way too many pints and alone.  She hadn’t meant to leave him alone.  How had that happened?  “I need to go to the hospital now.”

“I’ll drive you.”

In the waiting room she sat curled into a chair, her arms freshly-scrubbed and her rubbed-raw hands wrapped around a weak cup of tea.  Greg left to take care of the majority of the paperwork, assuring Jo she could give her statement in the morning.  Jo wondered if they’d take her gun.  Clearly she’d shot someone with it.  She decided that since no one had arrested her yet that was Mycroft’s problem.  She resumed staring into the distance.

“Doctor Watson.”  And there was the man himself, umbrella in hand.

“Where’s your human Blackberry?”

“Vienna.”  Jo decided not to analyse that as Mycroft sat in the chair to her right.  He carefully shook out the left sleeve of his bespoke suit as he settled into the uncomfortable, squeaky plastic.  “It will be at least another hour, Doctor Watson.”

“For fuck’s sake, Mycroft, you know you can call me Jo.”  Her hands were finally shaky.  Now that the action was over, the worry and the sudden drop in adrenaline left her feeling nauseated and a bit light-headed.  She stared carefully ahead, taking a long sip of her lukewarm tea.

“Of course, Joanna.”  She blanched slightly, because she hates her full name, but this is Mycroft Holmes.  She decided years ago to be pleased anytime he’s not calling her Doctor Watson.

“Are they going to let me see him when he’s out of surgery?  I know visiting hours are—”

“It’s been taken care of.  I thought it would be best if my face wasn’t the first he sees when he wakes.  For the sake of his stitches, at the very least.”

 “Mycroft Holmes.  Did you…did you just make a joke?”

He raised one gingery eyebrow and Jo could swear the corners of his mouth trembled for a moment, not sure whether to frown or smile.  “It’s entirely possible,” Mycroft nodded. 

“Right.”  Jo found herself transfixed by his eyes, a blue that sometimes shifted to grey.  She’s sure that once or twice they’ve even looked brown.  That was, of course, impossible.  A disguise, then, though the rest of said disguise was absent.  Maybe that was the thing he and Sherlock shared.  Aside from their obvious intelligence, perhaps they were united by their penchant for disguises and those ridiculously gorgeous eyes. 

“My brother cares for you a great deal, Joanna.”

“He said you’re fond of me.”  The words escaped before Jo could really think about them.  She was rewarded by the first blatant look of surprise she had ever seen cross Mycroft’s face.  It only lasted a few seconds, but that’s practically a Mycroft-week.

“He is correct.” Mycroft inclined his head, somehow imbuing the gesture with more weight than should really have been possible.

“That’s ridiculous; I assumed he was addled by blood loss.  Why would you like me?”

“Despite Sherlock’s best efforts, he hasn’t managed to permanently alienate you.”  Jo snorted.  No, the bastard hadn’t done that.  “You have been…an effective tempering force in his life.  Nearly five years and you haven’t grown weary of him.  What’s more, he hasn’t grown weary of you.  During his…”

“Hiatus?”

Mycroft’s lips twitched again.  “…Prolonged absence, he risked contacting me to check in on you; he missed you.  He saved every one of your texts.  I…for a very long time I hadn’t thought my brother entirely capable of that sort of affection.”

And Jo really had no idea what that meant.

They’ve had a few conversations like this.  A collection of moments across half a decade, always resulting in greater knowledge of Sherlock than she ever expected.  These brief conversations always leave her feeling like someone knocked the wind out of her and left her on the floor to catch her breath.  A few months after Sherlock’s ‘death’ she and Mycroft were almost…well, not friends but something like that.  Jo felt slightly guilty about where Mycroft might be headed with his line of thought.  Maybe he’d only arranged for her to see Sherlock after surgery because—

“We’re not—”

Mycroft waved a dismissive, elegant hand.  “No, obviously not.”  And Jo should find that worrisome, really, she should.  It may be time to sweep the flat for bugs.  Again.  “Be that as it may, I find myself constantly indebted to you.  You are the most important person in Sherlock’s life.”

And there was a sort of odd burning sensation in her chest.  “It’s only fair.  He’s the most important person in mine.”

Mycroft nodded before standing, umbrella handle still clutched tightly in his right hand.  “Someone will come for you when he’s in recovery.”  He turned to leave and Jo’s arm moved of its own volition.

“Mycroft.” 

He looked down at his left hand in surprise, and Jo thought it could be her new hobby, trying to surprise Mycroft Holmes.  Probably a dangerous idea, when she thought about it.  She marveled at how warm his hands felt, which is silly because Mycroft may be _Mycroft_ , but he’s still human.  Probably.

“Thank you.”  She released him and slumped back into her chair.  He nodded, just a slight bob of the head that he imbued with all the solemnity of a deep bow.  How did he do that?  Then Mycroft continued down the hallway, umbrella tapping sharply against the tiles.

Jo sat in Sherlock’s dimly lit room for forty minutes, just watching him doze.  Her chair was more comfortable than a hospital chair had any right to be.  Then again, this was a private room arranged by Mycroft.  It would be shocking if everything wasn’t comfortable and posh-looking.

“You should be sleeping.”  Sherlock’s voice was hoarse and a hair lower than normal.  Jo valiantly resisted the urge to rush to his side like a Regency heroine.  She rose slowly to her feet, picking up the water glass and a straw.

“I’m just fine, Mum.”  Jo looked down at his pale face, her knuckles white as she gripped the glass in an effort to ground herself, to ignore the gnawing worry in her gut.  “I haven’t had multiple people slicing up my insides in the last twelve hours.”  She confirmed how exhausted he was when he didn’t protest to the water.  He didn’t flop back against the plump pillows until the glass was empty.

“One of them was licensed, I’m sure.  And I haven’t shot anyone in the last twelve hours.  Thank you, Joanna.”

Jo hummed noncommittally, returning his glass to the side table.  “Your right kidney took some moderate damage, but all in all you’re grotesquely lucky.  Mycroft says ‘hello.’”

“He did no such thing.”  Sherlock forced his bleary eyes open.  In the dim light they were a cross between grey and blue.  He bore that slightly mad expression that overtook him mid-deduction.  Jo was unable to tear herself away from his gaze. 

“No, but he pulled more than a few strings for me to be here.  I thought I should say something nice.”  Jo smiled and asked, “Did you know he likes me?” She hadn’t meant to say anything, since Sherlock was the one who told her, but she was curious to discover how much he remembered.

“Did he say that?” Sherlock continue watching her with the stare he usually reserved for experiments, evidence, and criminals.  She clamped down on the urge to shiver.

“As much as Mycroft ever says things like that.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock repeated her earlier hum.

“You know, I think I may actually be ready to sleep,” Jo said, finally looking away.  She moved to the ridiculously-soft chair to retrieve her coat.  “Would you like me to bring you anything in the morning?”

“My laptop will be sufficient,” Sherlock nodded, frowning at the IV tugging on the skin of his hand.

“Alright.  Get some sleep, Sherlock.”

“Jo…”  She turned back, hand still resting on the door handle.  He watched her in silence for a long moment, his face obscured by the slanting shadows.  “Never mind.”

“G’night, Sherlock.”

**Author's Note:**

> The plan at this point is to keep it GEN, because I honestly didn't intend to write Johnlock for the slash-shy. I'm more than a bit fascinated by the idea of platonic girl!John and Sherlock because it's just not that common. But, really, I make no promises, because this is one of those ships that sometimes sails itself.


End file.
